


A Very Good Year for Arthur

by Robespierre



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 2012 Summer Olympics, Age Difference, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:19:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robespierre/pseuds/Robespierre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames are world-class trap shooters who meet when Arthur is just fifteen years old.  Three years later, they are competing against each other in London for Olympic gold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Good Year for Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> I was extremely disappointed with NBC’s coverage of the Olympics. I didn’t get to see even one shooting event, so this is what I worked on as my partner watched what seemed like hundreds of beach volleyball matches. It is not necessary to have any knowledge of trap shooting to read this story, though if you are interested, this is a good resource:  
> http://nymag.com/daily/sports/2012/07/casual-viewers-guide-double-trapshooting.html
> 
> Age difference: Arthur - 17/18, Eames - 37

Arthur loved to shoot. Tucking the stock against his shoulder, staring down the barrel, squeezing the trigger, smashing both targets, smelling the hot ejected cartridges – he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do. 

He’d been shooting since he was old enough to be trusted with a gun. While his friends were all busy joining the football team and sneaking joints out behind the school’s equipment shed, he was shooting. He had started on the range, but when his father took him outside to try his hand at clay pigeons, he knew he’d found his calling. 

And it had all paid off, because today he was standing on a rainy course outside of London, representing the United States in the finals of Men’s Double Trap. 

And he was _freaking out_.

He had never suffered from stage fright. Not a bit of performance anxiety. When he shoots, he doesn’t even remember that there are bleachers full of people watching him. No, today’s problem had nothing to do with the crowd. It was all about the other shooters.

Well, one shooter in particular. _Eames_.

Though Arthur was only seventeen years old, he had been called one of the best in the world for almost three years. He had shot spectacularly in several competitions, but it had never been good enough. His walls were full of silver. World Cup, PanAmerican Games, National Championship, Olympic trials – he’d placed second every time. He had never been disappointed with his performance, recognizing that he was young and was only going to get better with time. But he was still competitive. And he wanted to _win_ , dammit. 

 

\--- 

 

He first met Eames at the 2010 World Cup. It was Arthur’s first major competition, and he surprised everyone (including himself, but he’d never admit to that) by not just placing second, but being the youngest competitor to ever win a medal. 

It wasn’t until after the medal presentation ceremony that the enormity of the situation had hit him. After receiving congratulations from all of the judges and other participants, he was approached by a reporter and talked into giving a quick interview. He managed to make it through without embarrassing himself but really wanted nothing more than to escape the crowd. Unfortunately, it was proving impossible. He was penned in on all sides by people intent on shaking his hand, slapping him on the back, and offering unwanted advice. 

Arthur suddenly felt as though the air in the room had thinned. He found it harder and harder to take a full breath as the color was leached from everything around him, the whole world going gray. His knees wobbled and his eyes rolled back in his head.

Strong arms caught him before he could hit the floor. 

“Hey! Are you all right?”

Arthur felt himself being turned to face his rescuer, but he was too dizzy to even open his eyes.

“Let’s get you out of here.” 

An arm wrapped around his waist and propelled him toward the exit. He was able to stumble along, too exhausted to care whether or not anyone was watching him. 

Finally, cool air hit his face and he was guided to a seat on a bench. 

“Arthur! Look at me, please.”

Though it was a tremendous effort, he managed to open his eyes. 

_Holy shit_.

His rescuer was _gorgeous_ : brown hair clipped closely to his head, gray-blue eyes, and the most beautiful, plump pair of lips he’d ever seen. 

The man was still speaking. With an exceptionally sexy accent. 

“Do you feel any better now that we’re outside?”

Arthur blinked and shook his head to clear it, realizing as he did so that the man’s arm was still wrapped around his waist and that their bodies were pressed together from knee to shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to curl up into the heat of the man’s body but retained just enough awareness to know that was not the greatest of ideas. 

“I’m okay. Thanks. For getting me out of there.”

The man opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by the frantic voice of Arthur’s mother.

“Honey! What’s wrong? Why are you so pale?” 

His rescuer answered for him. 

“He almost passed out in there. I think the excitement and the crowd got to him.”

She knelt in front of Arthur, frantically pushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead and squinting at him. His father pressed a cold bottle of water to the back of his neck and rubbed his hand in large, soothing circles across his back. 

“Do you feel okay now?”

“Mom, I’m fine. I feel better now. I promise.” 

As his dizziness dissipated, his embarrassment grew. His mom was freaking out, his dad was being more touchy-feely than he had been in probably ten years, and an incredibly sexy British stranger was practically hugging him. He shifted, shaking all of their hands from his body, and snatched the bottle of water from his father. 

“Please get off me. I’m fine.”

His dad didn’t sound convinced. “You’re sure?”

Arthur couldn’t hold back the petulant tone in his answer. “Yes, I’m sure! Get off me!”

His rescuer stood, laughing.

“Well, it certainly sounds as though he’s recovering.”

Arthur’s parents seemed to notice the man for the first time. His father stood and extended his hand. 

“Thanks for taking care of our Arthur, Mr. Eames.”

_Eames? Why did that name sound familiar?_

“It was no problem, I assure you. In fact, I should have been keeping a closer eye on him. I remember all too well how overwhelming one’s first big win can be.”

Then it hit him. 

“Oh my god, _Eames_? Gold medal-winner _Eames_?” 

Eames’ smile was _incredible_. Slightly crooked teeth peeked out from behind those beautiful lips. 

“Yes, that’s me. Congratulations on the silver, by the way. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you that earlier.”

“Yeah, uh…thanks,” he stammered, blushing fiercely. 

He cursed his traitorous brain. Of course, Arthur knew Eames. Eames was amazing. He had seen Eames’ name at the top of every scoresheet for as long as he had paid attention to competitive shooting. But Arthur had never seen a picture of Eames; he had no face to match to the name. Until now. His shooting idol, the man who had been the best in the world for nearly twenty years, was also the most devastatingly handsome man he had ever seen. 

Arthur’s mother was back to petting his hair. He brushed her off, not wanting to seem like a child in front of Eames. He had already embarrassed himself enough. 

“Wow, I guess you are okay. Do you want to get some dinner?”

“Sure.”

“Mr. Eames, would you like to join us?”

“I’d love to.”

The next three hours were a blur. Arthur vaguely registered stowing his shotgun cases in the back of the car, sliding into a restaurant booth next to Eames, and being too tongue-tied to participate in any conversation. 

But the one thing he did remember quite clearly, the one memory that he hoped to keep forever, was Eames giving him a brief, tight hug goodbye.

 

\--- 

 

After winning a silver medal at the PanAmerican games, Arthur received a postcard from Eames. 

_Congratulations on the silver!_

When he came in second at the American National Championship, he got a greeting card.

_Congratulations! You’re really making a name for yourself._

He never told anyone just how much these notes meant to him. The fact that Eames, unquestionably the sexiest shooter in the world, cared enough to write to him made him feel like the luckiest man on Earth. He kept the notes tacked to the inside of his shotgun case so that he could see them as he practiced. During tournaments, he carried the notes in his shooting vest’s pocket as good luck charms. 

When it came time to ramp up his training schedule in preparation for the 2011 World Cup, he could barely concentrate. All he really cared about was seeing Eames again. He had printed out pictures of Eames to decorate his bedroom walls, his textbook covers, and his locker. He’d even taped a small picture to the notes that he kept in his case. He knew that he was acting a little like a twelve-year-old girl with her first crush, but he couldn’t help it. It was _Eames_! 

He hadn’t been able to forget the feeling of Eames’ arms around him. In fact, he frequently dreamt of Eames rescuing him, and not just on that day. Sometimes Arthur had a broken leg, sometimes he was bleeding, sometimes he was buried under a pile of rubble – it didn’t matter. All of the dreams ended the same way: with Eames picking him up like he weighed nothing and carrying him to safety, all the while gazing adoringly at Arthur. Eames would carry him to a hotel room or a forest clearing or a castle’s tower, gently lower his body, cup Arthur’s face in his hands, lean in and –

And then he woke up. Every time. Hard and sweating and just aching to feel Eames’ skin against his. 

It didn’t help that his parents were suddenly Eames’ biggest fans. They clipped newspaper and magazine articles, bookmarked new videos online, and even suggested vacationing in Belgrade to watch the European Shooting Championship competition. They claimed that they were doing all this because they knew how much Arthur admired Eames, but Arthur privately felt that he hadn’t been the only one charmed by the world’s number one trap shooter. 

But he was the only one keeping a countdown of the days until the next World Cup. Until he would see Eames again. 

 

\--- 

 

The months flew by. In what seemed like no time at all, Arthur was shooting in his second World Cup. There were so many shooters in the qualifying rounds that he didn’t see Eames until the finals. Eames was just two points ahead of him, and Arthur was sure that he’d be able to make up the difference. That is, until Eames gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder and a huge grin, causing Arthur to blush furiously and begin to sweat. 

He couldn’t concentrate knowing that Eames was just behind him, watching. As a result, he missed both shots in his first two rounds, putting him six points behind Eames. 

_Calm down_ , he told himself. _You can’t afford to be this distracted_. 

Arthur managed to nail the next forty-six targets. But by that point, it didn’t really matter. He knew that there was no way Eames would miss six. His gold medal hopes were dashed again.

Eames, of course, performed near-flawlessly, missing just one of the fifty targets. During the medal presentation ceremony, Arthur was furious with himself. True, he was only sixteen years old, but he knew he couldn’t allow the competition to rattle him like that. He was so confident coming into the shoot, but now he’d let his parents down. Hell, he’d let himself down. 

As soon as the last of the applause had faded, Arthur made a beeline for the stairs, hoping to get off the stage and out of the crowd as soon as possible. He was so disappointed in himself that he just wanted to get into the car and sulk. Unfortunately, he was stopped after just a few steps by the event’s organizers, the owners of the venue, and a reporter from _Trap Shooting USA_ magazine. In seconds, he was surrounded by people wanting to talk to him. 

Palms already sweating and nausea quickly overtaking him, Arthur began to panic. He couldn’t bear to engage in small talk and answer inane interview questions. He managed to shake hands and smile and even signed an autograph for the club’s wall of fame, hoping all the while that nobody would notice how truly uncomfortable he was. 

“Arthur, your parents sent me to look for you.”

Eames nodded to the other men, smiled, and said, “Gentlemen, thank you for organizing an excellent shoot,” then grabbed Arthur’s wrist to gently pull him away from the conversation. 

It simply wasn’t fair that one person could be so sexy, Arthur thought wildly. There needed to be some kind of law passed that prohibited entrance to the country for anyone so mouth-wateringly gorgeous that –

 _Oh, shit_.

Eames had released his arm but brought his hand up to rest at the base of Arthur’s neck, sliding his fingers up through Arthur’s hair as he exerted a gentle pressure, pushing him in the direction he wanted.

“You looked a little overwhelmed back there. I can’t stand those interviews, either. Let’s see if we can’t find your lovely parents, all right?”

Arthur could do nothing but nod as every cell in his body sang _Eames is touching me_! He sent a silent thank you out to the universe for the same crowd that he had hated moments ago, as it allowed him some time to surreptitiously adjust his instant erection to a less-noticeable position. 

His parents were thrilled to see Eames again, his mom even blushing a little when Eames brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Eames and his dad shook hands and congratulations were exchanged all around. After what seemed like just seconds but had probably been a few minutes, Eames said his goodbyes to his parents, then pulled Arthur toward him in a one armed hug. 

“Congratulations, darling,” he whispered. Soft lips brushed his cheek, and then Eames was gone.

And if his parents thought he was acting strangely, he hoped that they chalked it up to excitement at winning a medal. He’d certainly prefer they thought that than they guessed the truth: Arthur had immediately excused himself to sprint to the bathroom to jerk off, the memory of Eames’ hands and the smell of his cologne still fresh in his mind. 

 

\--- 

 

It was a full year before he saw Eames again. In the interim, he shot a very respectable 145 to place second in the qualification match for the U.S. Olympic team. This time, Eames communicated via email: _Beautiful shooting. See you in London, darling._

 

\---

 

The 2012 World Cup was held in London, allowing participants the opportunity to compete at the Olympic venue a full four months before the start of the Games. Again, Arthur and Eames were not in the same qualifying groups but both scored high enough to pass to the finals. This time, only one point separated them. Eames was ahead of Arthur in the six-man rotation, and Arthur couldn’t help but admire the man’s ass as he effortlessly hit target after target, missing only two. 

Determined to prove himself this year, Arthur ignored the effect Eames’ body had on him and matched the man point for point, also missing two targets. Unfortunately, that meant Arthur had placed second to Eames’ first for the third year in a row.

There were more members of the press at this tournament than Arthur had ever seen before. Photographers and reporters were everywhere, and they were shouting at him, yelling questions and demanding he pose for pictures. It was so much worse than the normal crowd that he found himself unconsciously moving toward the back of the stage, backing away from the press, until he was virtually penned in by the pack of journalists. 

A loud voice cut through the reporters’ questions. 

“Why are you so interested in talking with an old man like me? This, ladies and gentlemen, is the future of trap shooting!”

Eames pushed his way through the crowd until he was close enough to sling an arm around Arthur’s waist. The increase in noise and camera flashes was almost overwhelming. For a moment, Arthur wished Eames hadn’t directed all of the attention onto him. He pulled away, searching for an escape route, but was reeled back in by Eames, who brought his head down to Arthur’s ear to whisper, “We’ll be out of here in a few moments. I promise.”

Turning his brilliant smile back onto the journalists, Eames raised his voice. 

“We will pose for a few pictures, but this has been a very draining competition and we both need to rest. If you can provide the event organizers with a list of questions for us, we will answer each and every one of them – just not right now.”

The camera flashes increased to the point that Arthur found it difficult to keep his eyes open, but he tried to smile as normally as he possibly could with Eames’ huge hand resting on his hip, squeezing slightly. After a few minutes of this torture, with a wave and a “Thank you so much for coming out to see us today,” Eames released Arthur’s waist to grab his hand and pull him out of the crowd. 

Arthur spied his parents’ proud faces in the front row of the bleachers and signaled to them that he would be with them in just a moment, as Eames did not seem to have any intention of releasing him. The older man led him out of the crush of people and toward the shooters’ locker rooms.

Arthur sighed, all the tension bleeding from him as the door closed behind them, effectively silencing the thousands of people outside. His contentment didn’t last long – it was rapidly replaced with embarrassment. How many times could he make an ass of himself in front of Eames? He slid down against the wall until he was seated on the floor, pulling Eames down with him by their still-connected hands. 

“Eames, seriously, thank you so much. You saved me again. I don’t know why I get so nervous at these things – you’d think I’d be used to it by now but I just get freaked out when there are so many people yelling at me and I –”

“Hey. Hey, Arthur, look at me.” 

Eames’ other hand gently grasped Arthur’s chin and tilted his head up so that Arthur was meeting his eyes. 

“There is nothing to be ashamed of. I still hate those crowds, and I’ve been doing this for more than twenty years. You’ll grow more accustomed to it over time. I promise.”

Arthur managed a weak smile even though his heart was pounding so hard he was sure that Eames could see it through his tee-shirt. 

“Thanks,” he whispered. 

Eames stood, releasing Arthur’s hand and chin. 

“Stay here for a little while. I’ll let your parents know where you are.”

Arthur was too keyed up to do anything but nod.

“Oh, and Arthur,” Eames drawled as he left the locker room, “congratulations. I’ll see you back here in a few months.”

 

\---

 

Arthur and Eames were tied heading into the finals, both with almost unheard of perfect scores, four points ahead of the closest competitor. Unless something terrible happened, either Arthur or Eames was going to win the Olympic gold medal. 

They stood with the other four finalists, waiting for the judges to take their seats. Making sure the television cameras were not pointed at him, Eames leaned toward Arthur and kissed him swiftly on the cheek.

“Good luck, darling. Focus. I know you can do it.”

Arthur blushed and turned away from Eames, so twitchy that he knew he would do something stupid like throw himself at the older man if he couldn’t calm down.

_Okay. Focus. I can do this._

Arthur’s focus and concentration were what made him a great trap shooter. He could calm himself down the same way a target shooter would, feeling that zen-like connection between his heart, his breaths, and his finger on the trigger. He could block out the rest of the world and concentrate on nothing but his shooting. At the same time, he was also blessed with lightning-quick reflexes that allowed him to track targets through the air and make minute adjustments to his aim in less than a second. 

Round One: _bang, bang_. Both targets down. Eames did the same. 

In fact, Eames and Arthur remained deadlocked until the 140th target. Arthur missed. Eames missed numbers 142 and 143. Arthur missed 147. Eames missed 148. 

Two shots left. Arthur was already guaranteed an Olympic medal. These two shots would just determine what color. He pushed all thoughts from his mind, focusing solely on the patch of sky into which the two targets were going to fly. 

One deep breath. Two. Three. He was ready. Or as ready as he would ever be. 

Both targets exploded in a cloud of red smoke. He’d nailed both of them.

_Oh my fucking god, I did it._

Unlike the polite applause and few cheers Arthur heard at other competitions, this crowd erupted in screams. 

“148!”

“Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!”

And then he heard it.

“World record!”

He knew his score, but he hadn’t processed it yet. Not just an Olympic gold medal but the new world record. For him, the youngest ever Olympic trap shooter.

It was too much. His knees gave out and he fell to the ground, covering his face with his hands to hide his tears from the cameras. 

He heard the last competitor’s two shots and more screaming from the crowd but couldn’t even lift his head. All of his muscles felt too jellified to function. His hands were shaking so much that he knew he must look a mess, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Suddenly, a deliciously warm body draped itself over his, squeezing him until he couldn’t breathe. He was pulled to his feet and propelled toward his parents in the stands. 

Eames, because who else could it be, was talking. 

“Oh, Arthur, I’m so proud of you. I knew you could do it! You were amazing.”

Eames helped him jump over the fence separating the field from the audience. His parents practically leapt over the three rows of spectators separating them, both of them crying as they pulled him into a tight embrace. A cameraman appeared from out of nowhere and for once, Arthur didn’t mind. He held onto his parents as all three wept tears of joy.

He took no notice of the hand on his shoulder until Eames started to shake him. 

“Arthur, we need to go back for the medal ceremony.”

Arthur glanced toward the platform where Olympic staffers were unfurling the flags of France, Great Britain, and the United States.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered.

Eames and his parents laughed as Arthur’s father and Eames helped him back over the fence and onto the field. Eames supported Arthur as he made his way to the medals platform on wobbly legs. 

He knew that he was never going to hear the end of it from his friends, but he simply couldn’t hold back the tears as the medal was placed around his neck, his national anthem was played, and the flags were raised. Shooting was his life, and he’d managed to win the world’s most prestigious competition. He’d made his parents (and Eames) so proud. There was no way that his life could get any better. 

As soon as the cameras were turned off and the spectators began to leave the stands, he sat down heavily on the grass in front of the platform. Eames knelt in front of him and placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Ready to get out of here?” 

Arthur nodded but gestured toward his parents, who were practically shoving their way through the crowd in their hurry to get to their son. 

His mother was still crying as she crushed him in her embrace once again, pushing Eames to the side. 

“We’re so proud of you, honey! We knew you could do it!”

Arthur smiled, now giddy from the high of winning. 

“I’m so glad you were here, Mom and Dad.”

“Arthur,” his father said tentatively, “I know this isn’t really the best timing, but I’m starving! Can we get out of here and something to eat?”

It was the perfect thing to say, reminding Arthur of family dinners after countless other competitions. Though he expected this one would be slightly more memorable than a trip to McDonalds, clutching a plastic trophy. Arthur giggled and nodded, extricating himself from his mother’s arms and standing. 

“Can Eames come, too?”

“Of course! We’d love to have him with us,” his mother replied. 

Arthur turned to Eames. 

“Well? Want to come?”

Eames grinned. 

“I’d love to.”

 

\---

 

Hours later, Arthur had lost track of how many people had approached their table to congratulate him and Eames on their performances. His parents were having the time of their lives, basking in the glow of their son’s success. It was nearly midnight when their little celebration came to an end, Eames offering to drive everyone back to the hotel. 

“Mom, Dad, is it okay if I stay in Olympic Village tonight? This might be my last chance to hang out with the rest of the team since not everyone is staying for the closing ceremony.”

His parents engaged in one of those wordless debates, arguing with their eyes. He waited what he considered a decent amount of time before asking again. 

“Well?”

His father was the one to answer. 

“If that’s what you want, Arthur. Just please be careful. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Dad! The last three nights, my roommate and I have been watching Doctor Who reruns. It’s not all wild parties, you know.”

His mom and dad both laughed at that as Eames pulled up in front of their hotel, Mom leaning over the front seat to kiss Arthur on the forehead. 

“Have a wonderful time, honey.”

Eames joined Arthur in waving to his parents. He waited until they were safely inside the building to pull away from the curb. 

And just like that, Arthur was alone with Eames again. Arthur didn’t know what to say and Eames didn’t seem to feel the need to talk. _Shit_. Was he angry? He hadn’t seemed that way earlier.

“Um, do you mind taking me back to the Village?”

“It’s no problem. I just need to stop at my place to pick up a change of clothing.”

And that was it. Eames was silent for, according to the dashboard’s clock, nearly fifteen minutes. Arthur plucked up all his courage as they were waiting at what seemed like an endless traffic light. 

“Eames?”

Eames turned to face him. 

“Yes?”

Arthur cringed, knowing how childish it was going to sound.

“Are you mad at me?”

“What?” he laughed. “Are you kidding me? Why would I be angry with you?”

“I don’t know. It’s just – you won the gold three times in a row. And now I did.”

“Arthur, I’m nothing but proud of you. And I’m certainly not upset with myself. I shot a personal best today, you know. You were just better than me. And you should be happy, not worrying about what other people think of you.”

Eames leaned toward him and punched him softly on the arm. 

“Got it?”

“Okay. Thanks, Eames.”

That weight lifted, he suddenly realized that he was going to be seeing where Eames lived. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of where he slept. That way, when he fantasized about Eames while jerking off (which had been happening on an almost daily basis since the World Cup four months ago) he’d be able to make his fantasies as accurate as possible. 

_Oh god_. Stuck in a car with Eames was definitely not the place to be picturing the two of them in Eames’ bedroom, their clothing strewn around the room as their naked bodies pressed against each other, his hands tracing the muscles in Eames’ broad back before moving down to grab a handful of his ass so that he –

“Arthur, we’re here.”

Eames’ voice pulled him out of his daydream. They were parked in what appeared to be a private lot behind a group of large, cream-colored buildings. 

“This will just take a few minutes. Do you want to come in or wait here?”

Like he was going to give up the chance to see where Eames lived! He grabbed his bag from the backseat, unwilling to be parted from his gold medal. 

“I’ll come with you.”

Neither of them spoke as they entered the building, climbed two sets of stairs, and paused outside of an apartment door. Eames was having a little trouble with the lock, almost as though he couldn’t remember which key to use.

“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I don’t stay here in the city very often. Sometimes I forget.”

Arthur couldn’t image owning more than one home, let alone so many that he forgot which key went with which place. But maybe that was the life he was headed for – after all, he had just been named the world’s best trap shooter. There would be advertising campaigns now that he was finally a gold medal winner. 

“Make yourself at home,” Eames called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen. “I think the remote is under the couch in case you want to watch television.”

Arthur was too busy learning every inch of the apartment to even answer. The living room furniture was all light-colored wood with deep, soft-looking cushions. It would be so easy to collapse onto the sofa and drift off to sleep. But this was the only chance he was ever going to get, so he dropped his bag on the floor and snuck off down the hallway in search of Eames’ bedroom. On the way, he discovered a large bathroom, a home office, and a bedroom that was so empty it had to be for guests. 

Finally, his hand was on the doorknob to Eames’ room. He took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and crept inside. 

It was a small, square room, sparsely furnished with just a bed, bedside table, and armoire. A pair of French doors opened onto a private balcony set with a small table and two chairs. 

Arthur heard footsteps in the hallway and realized he was going to be caught. Sure enough, Eames flipped on the light switch as he entered his bedroom, giving Arthur a playfully angry look. 

“You little snoop!”

Arthur grinned.

“I prefer ‘curious,’ actually.”

“Well, I can’t blame you. So, what do you think about a three-time Olympic gold medal-winning athlete’s bedroom?”

“Honestly? I’m a little surprised. There’s nothing personal here. There are only a few books, no pictures, and nothing on the walls. Where’s all your stuff? Ooh, where are your medals?”

“Sorry, darling,” Eames replied, tugging on the ribbon of the gold medal that Arthur was still wearing, “I really only use this place to crash when I’m in London for a few days. All of my medals are at my house.”

Arthur was actually disappointed. He hadn’t realized it before he asked, but he did really want to see Eames’ other medals. 

“All right, time to go. Are you finished or do you need to look under the beds and in the drawers?”

He grinned and slipped past Eames into the hallway.

“Actually,” he called out, “I need a few minutes to check out the refrigerator and all of your cabinets.” 

Eames’ laughter followed him down the hall. As Arthur passed the living room, he couldn’t resist that furniture. He needed to see if those cushions were as soft and inviting as they looked. He took a running leap and landed on his stomach on the large couch.

The cushions weren’t as nice as they looked. They were _better_. Arthur had never felt such a comfortable piece of furniture. He wanted to marry this couch. 

Eames’ laughter was suddenly much closer. 

“You want to marry it? I think the armchair might object to that.”

Arthur flushed. 

“Oh, so I said that out loud, huh?”

“Yes, darling, you did.”

Arthur turned his head to see Eames kneeling next to the couch. His face was just inches away from Arthur’s. 

“I’m sorry, I just…can I just…Arthur, I need…”

Eames leaned in and pressed his lips to Arthur’s.

Arthur gasped at the sensation of Eames’ beautiful, full lips pressing against his, strong and soft at the same time. Eames took advantage of Arthur’s gasp and licked his way into his mouth, apparently intent on exploring every bit of it. He sucked gently on Arthur’s tongue, drawing it into his own mouth and setting a twisting rhythm that took Arthur’s breath away. Suddenly, Eames wrenched himself away from Arthur, pulling back so quickly that it had to have been painful.

Arthur was left gasping for air. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, sinking back into the couch’s soft cushions. When he finally found his voice, it seemed an octave higher than usual. 

“Eames? Did I do something wrong?”

Eames groaned. 

“No, darling, you were perfect. It’s me. I should not have…that was not a good idea.”

Arthur had heard the expression _my heart sank_ , but he had always thought it was nothing more than a figure of speech. Now, though, he thought wildly that the phrase didn’t even do justice to this horrible feeling. It was as though his lungs deflated, his blood stopped flowing, and his brain stuttered to a stop. Eames’ words _crushed_ him.

Eames moved to sit next to him on the couch. He took Arthur’s hand in both of his and began rubbing small circles onto his palm. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. 

“Arthur, I…I’m so sorry. I should never have done that. I just…I can’t help myself when I’m with you.” 

His voice broke a little, becoming rougher as he continued. 

“You’re…you _captivate_ me. I can’t stay away from you. I haven’t been able to think of anything but you since we met almost three years ago.”

 _Holy fuck. Eames_ wanted _him._

Arthur dared to look up at Eames’ face. Gathering up all of his courage, he said, “I don’t really see a problem here.”

Eames squeezed his hand so tightly that Arthur winced. 

“The problem is that you’re much too young for me. I’m thirty-seven, Arthur. Thirty-seven! I’m old enough to be your father!”

Later, Arthur would never be able to explain why he did what he did. Maybe he was still riding the high of winning an Olympic gold medal. Maybe he was afraid that he’d never get a chance like this again. It could have been the warmth of Eames’ hands on his. Or the memory of Eames’ arm wrapped around his waist and his fingers in Arthur’s hair. 

Whatever the reason, Arthur wrenched his hand from Eames’ and launched himself at his idol, straddling Eames’ lap and licking, sucking, biting at Eames’ beautiful lips. At first, Eames seemed too shocked to move, but he came to awareness after a few moments and firmly pushed Arthur’s shoulders back, separating their mouths no matter how hard Arthur tried to latch back on. 

“Arthur! We have to stop this!”

Arthur’s heart leapt as his brain seized the important word in that exclamation: we. It wasn’t just Arthur throwing himself at Eames – Eames still wanted this! Arthur had to tread carefully if he wanted this to work.

“Fine! Just let me talk for a second here. Will you listen to me and promise not to interrupt?”

Eames sighed, “All right. But please get off my lap.”

Arthur briefly considered pouting but was willing to do what Eames wanted as long as he would listen. He slid off of Eames’ legs and onto the floor. Looking up at Eames’ face (was he _blushing_?), he took a deep breath and began.

“Eames, I have wanted you since the day I almost passed out and you saved me. I already idolized you for your shooting, but when I saw how gorgeous you were – and how _nice_ you were…” 

Now Arthur was the one blushing. His cheeks were hot and he felt the flush spreading down his face and onto his throat. He had to say the right things here or he knew he’d lose any chance he had to be with Eames.

“Did you know that I graduated from high school a year early? I’m taking a year off, but I’ll be starting college next year. I’m smart and driven and I was able to graduate early even though I spent so much time shooting and had to take off so many days to travel to competitions. I am not a child. You are not taking advantage of me. I am determined and I do whatever it takes to get what I want. I want you and I have since I met you.”

Eames seemed about to protest. Arthur was quick to place a finger to Eames’ lips to quiet him, loving the way the soft pink flesh gave under his fingertip. 

“One last thing. I can tell you don’t believe me. That you think I only want to do this now, in the heat of the moment, and that I’ll regret it later.”

Eames didn’t speak but slowly nodded his head.

“I can prove how much I want this. How I feel about you. Answer this for me – what do you keep in the pockets of your shooting vest? What do you carry for good luck?”

Eames seemed confused by the turn the conversation had taken, but he did answer. 

“Well, the scoresheet from the first competition I won. A picture of my parents and me at the ’96 Olympics. A piece of the stock of the first shotgun I ever owned. Why?”

“So they’re the things that are the most important to you?”

“Of course.”

“Please go look in the pockets of my vest.”

Eames looked even more confused, if that was possible, but crossed the living room to kneel next to Arthur’s bag. Arthur’s Team USA vest had only two pockets. Eames unzipped the right hip pocket first and pulled out a handful of photos. 

“Your parents, you at the Junior National Championships, you at your first World Cup, and…is this your dog?”

Arthur nodded.

“I don’t understand. What does this have to do with –”

“Eames, there are two pockets.”

Eames scowled but reached into the left breast pocket, the one Arthur liked to think of as being directly over his heart. He watched Eames closely, knowing that this was his only chance to prove that Eames was what he wanted.

The papers were tightly folded. A tiny crease appeared between Eames’ eyebrows as he worked to open and unfold each card and piece of paper. He looked up, shocked.

“Arthur, these are –”

“Yup,” Arthur interrupted. “Every note, card, and email that you’ve ever sent me. But you missed something.”

Plucking up all his courage, Arthur crossed the living room to kneel next to Eames. Reaching into his vest pocket, he pulled out and unfolded the photo. He offered it to Eames. 

“This is what I’ve had in my vest, giving me luck, for the last three years.”

The way Eames’ eyes widened in surprise was almost cartoon-like, and had the situation been less serious, Arthur would never have been able to hold back his laughter. But nothing about this was funny. This was about finally having a shot at what he wanted more than anything. Winning a gold medal and setting a world record were amazing experiences, things he’d wanted to accomplish for as long as he could remember – but being with Eames, being _wanted_ by Eames, would be the ultimate prize.

“I…I’ve never seen this one before.”

“That’s because my mom took it from the stands. She knew how excited I was going to be about meeting you.”

The photo was taken the day of the World Cup three years earlier – the day Arthur first met Eames. In it, the two of them faced the spectators, medals around their necks. Eames had his arm around fifteen year-old Arthur’s shoulder (and didn’t that piss him off – that the first time Eames had ever touched him he’d been too excited about winning a medal to even notice) and was looking down at him with a slight curl of a smile on his face. 

Eames slowly lifted his head, meeting Arthur’s eyes as the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile not unlike the one from the picture. For a few seconds that felt to Arthur like an eternity, Eames did nothing but stare at him. Arthur knew that this was it – this was the make or break moment for the two of them. Eames was either going to believe Arthur and they would end up in his bedroom, or he would send Arthur back to Olympic Village. 

The tension was killing him. It was too hard to continue looking at Eames’ too-serious face. Arthur dropped his gaze to the hardwood floor, biting his lip and preparing himself to hear Eames’ rejection. 

But all thoughts of rejection – in fact, all thoughts of anything at all – disappeared when Eames reached out to him, wrapping one arm around his waist and sinking the other hand into his hair before slowly, _slowly_ bringing their mouths together.

Being kissed by Eames was too overwhelming for Arthur to do more than passively receive Eames’ attentions. Eames’ tongue twined silkily around his while he applied a gentle suction that had Arthur moaning.

Eames stood, pulling Arthur up with him. Moving from a kneeling position to a standing one was awkward as their knees collided and they nearly fell back to the floor, their mouths still connected as though Eames was unwilling to separate from him for even an instant. 

Once Eames had managed to bring them both to their feet, he dropped both hands to Arthur’s waist and easily lifted him, Arthur instinctively wrapping his legs around Eames’ waist as he crushed Arthur’s body against the wall. Eames rolled his hips forward, and Arthur nearly screamed at the absolutely _electric_ full-body shock of feeling Eames’ fully-clothed cock against his.

Arthur couldn’t help himself. He bucked into the sensation, rubbing himself against Eames in what had to be the least graceful thing he had ever done, but he couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed as he felt Eames’ hips move in counterpoint to his. The sounds coming from his mouth couldn’t really be classified as words, but Arthur didn’t care. He felt _wild_ , completely ruled by his body as he chased the rising sensation at the base of his spine to its inevitable conclusion. 

Eames’ mouth, which had fallen slack against his as they ground against each other, slid down Arthur’s face to latch onto the skin at the join of his shoulder and neck. He sank his teeth into the flesh there, sucking hard enough to bring blood to the surface and bruise instantly. Eames practically _growled_ as Arthur gasped and writhed against him. 

Eames’ voice was lower than usual as he spoke, his face still pressed to Arthur’s neck. 

“Oh, Arthur! I can’t believe…oh, so good…please talk to me…”

Talk? Arthur was harder than he’d ever been in his entire life, seconds away from a moment he had dreamed about for years – and Eames wanted to him to _talk_? There was no way he could even string two thoughts together, let alone get his mouth to properly form words. 

“Eames, I never…I don’t…oh, Eames!”

Something about what he said, or maybe the way he said it, made Eames’ hips stop dead. He eased Arthur’s feet back down to the floor and brought both of his hands up to cup his face. 

“Darling, is this your first time?”

If Arthur thought that clumsily throwing himself at Eames earlier had been embarrassing, it was nothing compared to this. His face was so hot that he was surprised Eames could even touch him without burning himself. He couldn’t look Eames in the eye, instead focusing somewhere around his collarbone. 

“Arthur, sweetheart, please don’t be embarrassed. Look at me.”

Arthur did, blinking furiously to try to hold back the tears (of embarrassment? frustration?) forming in his eyes. Eames’s thumbs slid gently across his cheekbones as he leaned in and kissed Arthur on the forehead. 

“You’re too special to have your first time up against a wall. Let me take care of you.”

Eames bent to scoop Arthur into his arms and carry him to the bedroom. It was so like Arthur’s fantasies that he was hit by a wave of crushing disappointment. This had to be a dream. A world record, a gold medal, _and_ Eames? He had to be dreaming.

As Eames lowered him to the bed and gently pressed their lips together, Arthur steeled himself for the inevitable blare of the alarm clock that would wake him from this incredible dream. Except…except in his dreams, things never went this far. It always ended before the kiss. Did that mean – was this actually happening?

A tiny, nearly hysterical giggle escaped from his lips. Eames looked at him quizzically and asked, “Is everything all right?”

Later he’d curse himself for sounding like an absolute idiot, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Is this really happening? It’s not a dream?”

Eames chest rumbled with laughter as he replied, “I swear this is not a dream. We’re really here and I’ll still be here when you wake up tomorrow morning.”

Then Eames pulled his shirt up and over his head, completely shutting down Arthur’s ability to think when presented with the gorgeously tanned stomach, chest, and shoulders. Suddenly it didn’t matter whether this was a dream or not – all that mattered was seeing and touching more of Eames.

Eames unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, stepping out of them (when had he even taken his shoes off?), then moved to straddle Arthur’s still-clothed thighs. Eames, naked except for black boxer-briefs, was the embodiment of every one of Arthur’s fantasies – with one addition he had definitely not dreamed of. 

Arthur reached up to stroke Eames’ chest, running the tips of his fingers over the five linked Olympic rings of his tattoo. Below the image were four dates. Eames grinned. 

“Like it?”

“I want one!”

“Let’s wait until tomorrow to talk about that,” Eames chuckled. “We have more important things to do right now.”

Arthur couldn’t help but agree as Eames pulled Arthur’s shirt off. He hesitated a moment before moving to unbutton and unzip the jeans, but proceeded to slide them off when Arthur helpfully lifted his hips. Flinging the pants to the side, Eames lowered himself onto Arthur, once again bringing their cocks together, this time separated by only the two thin layers of fabric. Arthur hissed at the sensation, so close to coming that he wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around Eames and rut against him. 

Of course, Eames chose that moment to sit up, separating their bodies. He ran his hands across Arthur’s neck and chest, thumbing his nipples ( _holy shit_ , who could have predicted how much he’d like that?) and skating his fingertips across the patch of skin just above the waistband of his boxers. He leaned over to whisper, his hot breath caressing Arthur’s ear, “I want to make this so good for you. So that you never forget it – never forget me.”

Arthur couldn’t hold back the sound (and he’d deny for the rest of his life that it was a sob) that preceded his words. “Oh, Eames – please!”

Whenever Arthur thought about sex (and what seventeen year-old virgin didn’t?), he had pictured the end results – cock in mouth, cock in ass – but had never stopped to consider how he would get there. Never imagined that the drag of Eames’ fingertips against his skin as he slowly slid Arthur’s boxers off would affect him just as much as the kisses. Never imagined that he’d be leaning into each touch like some kind of house pet. Could not possibly have predicted that Eames’ lips on the thin skin of his hips would feel like an act of sex in itself instead of just a pit stop on the way to the real thing. 

Temporarily lost in his thoughts, rocking mindlessly into Eames’ caresses, Arthur was brought back into the moment at the first gentle touch of Eames’ lips to the head of his cock. 

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Eames’ chuckle was accompanied by a positively predatory smile as he slowly opened his mouth and slid down Arthur’s length, his eyes drilling into Arthur’s the whole time. 

Those gorgeously plump lips stretched around him. Hot. Wet. Arthur’s eyelids slid shut as his head tipped back to land with a soft _whump_ on the pillow. He wanted to say something, to tell Eames that he’d never imagined anything could feel this good, but his throat was so tight that he couldn’t force anything from it but a few choked groans. 

Eames wasn’t taking his time. He took all of Arthur deep into his mouth, pulled back until he had just the tip resting on his tongue, and did it again, his mouth moving in a smooth glide that had Arthur thrusting uncontrollably into that perfect mix of warmth and slick pressure. Waves of pleasure coursed through him, and though his brain was screaming _oh, god, I want this to go on forever_ , his body rebelled. His hands scrabbled against Eames’ shoulders in an attempt to let him know that he was going to come, but Eames simply looked him in the eye and _hummed_ , the vibration finally triggering Arthur’s climax.

He couldn’t stop the stream of words that poured from his mouth – “Oh yes oh god yes oh fuck fuck fuck _Eames_!”

Eames continued to slide those unbelievably soft lips up and down for much longer than Arthur would have thought to, milking every drop from him until his oversensitized flesh couldn’t handle any more. 

Eames pulled away slightly, keeping just the tip of Arthur inside his mouth and gently squeezing his thighs. 

It took a few tries, requiring much swallowing and throat-clearing, before Arthur managed to choke out a “thank you.” 

Eames’ laugh was thunderously loud in the silence of the apartment. 

“Oh, darling, it was my pleasure. Believe me.”

He moved up until his head was just above Arthur’s, leaning in for a kiss while pressing their lower bodies together. So exhausted that he felt he could easily sink into the mattress and never wake up again, Arthur dimly registered the suddenly strange taste of Eames’ mouth as it moved urgently against his. 

Those lips crushed against his, Eames’ tongue frantically dancing as though desperate to leave no part of his mouth undiscovered. Arthur pushed back, his lips and tongue made lazy by the warm body lying between his legs, not to mention his first ever orgasm brought about by another person. 

The sudden realization that he was tasting _himself_ in Eames’ mouth didn’t bother him nearly as much as he expected – but then again, how could he ever be freaked out by anything that came as a result of Eames’ incredible mouth on his cock?

Arthur was so high on Olympics and orgasm and Eames that he imagined his body becoming light enough to simply float away, Eames’ weight the only thing keeping him tied to the Earth. It was such a ridiculous thought that he couldn’t help but let out a tiny snort of laughter. It was enough to makes Eames pause.

“All right?”

Arthur’s contented groan seemed to be enough of an answer for him. He slipped an arm beneath Arthur, whispering, “Roll over, darling.”

It was a true testament to Eames’ skill at relaxing him that Arthur didn’t even question his command, just turned onto his stomach, lazily spreading his arms and legs. He trusted Eames enough to put himself completely in his hands. 

He expected to feel Eames’ chest pressed against his back, but instead Eames slid toward the foot of the bed, kissing and licking his way down the length of Arthur’s spine, Arthur practically purring at the sensation. 

Eames started to speak, his voice not much louder than a whisper. 

“I want you. I want to fuck you.”

Arthur shivered, as much from Eames’ words as from the warm breath ghosting over his skin.

“I want to be inside you so bad, but we have to be careful. I want to make it good for you. Will you let me…?”

Eames’ voice trailed off, and he wasn’t sure what he was asking, but Arthur was ready to give him anything. 

“Yes, _please_ , Eames. Whatever you want.”

“Darling,” Eames rasped, “the things you do to me.” 

Arthur looked over his shoulder. “I’d rather you do things to me, actually.”

Eames’s groan vibrated through Arthur’s body, setting fire to his already-tingling skin. With no warning, Eames palmed his ass, spreading his cheeks. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat and he felt his whole body flush as Eames leaned in and blew a gust of warm air directly onto the most private part of him. 

“Relax, Arthur.” 

That was all the warning he had before Eames’ tongue slid over the very center of him, not pressing hard, but creating such a _weird but fucking awesome_ sensation that he couldn’t help but grind his suddenly hard again cock into the mattress in a desperate search for more friction. 

Time seemed to be moving strangely. It could have been seconds, or minutes, or hours – Arthur’s whole world was narrowed down to Eames’ tongue licking in increasingly small circles until he pointed it to drive _into_ him, licking the insides of him, warm and wet and, _oh fuck_ , that was a finger sliding inside, the burn not quite as bad as he’d expected, Eames’ tongue chasing away the burn as he slowly stretched him, getting him sopping wet with saliva and then the cool drip of lube –

Arthur’s body was struggling to accept all of what he was feeling: the drag of his cock against the blanket, the squelchy-wet feeling of being licked, and the sparks of white-hot pleasure as Eames’ fingers moved inside him. There was a moment when the gorgeous pleasure of it all wasn’t enough to mask the sting and burn of an additional finger, but he held on, promised himself that Eames would make it wonderful for him if he could just work through it.

When Eames finally judged him ready, he draped himself over Arthur to whisper in his ear. 

“I would dearly love to do this to you all night – want to make you fall apart over and over again. But I can’t wait. Please let me know if you need me to stop. Tell me if it hurts. Please, Arthur.”

“God, yes – just please –” 

He didn’t even know what he was asking for. All he was sure of was that he needed Eames to touch him, to make him _his_.

Eames lifted Arthur by his hips so that he was balanced on his hands and knees. 

Kissing Arthur between the shoulder blades, Eames whispered, “Just breathe,” before wrapping a hand around his own cock and pushing against Arthur’s hole. 

Arthur realized almost immediately that Eames’ fingers, thick as they were, hadn’t been right – just hadn’t been enough – to prepare him for this. The unrelenting thickness of Eames’ cock as it popped past the ring of muscle _hurt_. Arthur hissed, and Eames froze.

“Darling?”

“I’m okay, just – just go slowly. Please,” Arthur panted.

Eames took him at his word and continued the push that was joining their bodies together. 

It was that realization, that Eames was becoming a part of Arthur’s own body, that gave Arthur more incentive to relax, to grit his teeth against the burn, and to allow Eames to slide all the way in. Suddenly Arthur and Eames were _ArthurandEames_ , and fuck, it was good – losing himself in the slick push of flesh into flesh. 

Finally sunk all the way into him, his balls against Arthur’s ass, Eames paused to allow him to get used to the overwhelming fullness. But Arthur didn’t need it; instead, he pushed his hips back as a groan bled from his lips and he lifted a hand to wrap around his own cock. Eames batted his hand away. 

“You won’t need that. You’re going to come on my cock.”

Arthur again temporarily entertained the thought that this was an elaborate, Olympics-induced dream. Because there was no way that he could actually be trapped beneath Eames’ powerful body, full of Eames’ cock, listening to him growl out filthy things. 

_Dreams could never feel this good_ , he realized as Eames pulled out only to thrust quickly back in. 

And time was again moving strangely. Arthur was pushing back into Eames, meeting his thrusts, and then they were suddenly on their sides, Eames pushing in not quite so deep but instead moving back and forth against a spot inside him that had him screaming into the quiet stillness of the apartment.

Without any knowledge of how he got there, Arthur was on top of Eames, rocking back and forth as Eames thrust gently, driving in so deep that Arthur wasn’t sure how long he could handle it.

Then he was crushed flat on his stomach, Eames’ entire body pressed against his back, connected to Eames more intimately than he’d ever imagined he could be. Each snap of Eames’ hips brought Arthur closer and closer to coming, his skin so oversensitive that he felt as though he was standing next to a live wire. 

He spared a second to think that the noise was very annoying before he realized that it was coming from him. A litany of “oh don’t stop, never stop, so good, Eames, please, Eames” poured from his mouth as Eames’ thrusts picked up in speed, his breath gone ragged in Arthur’s ear.

“Arthur, fuck – love this, love you – I’m so close, want to come inside you, make you mine so that nobody else can ever have you –” 

And Arthur’s world exploded. It was as thought he’d grabbed that live wire, electricity coursing through his veins, leaving liquid fire in its wake as it raced through his body as he came and came and came with Eames’ name on his lips, grinding against the mattress. Stars exploded into galaxies behind his tightly closed eyes as every bit of pleasure his body was capable of producing was offered to him at once. 

He dimly registered Eames thrusting once, twice, three times before he gasped and went still. 

 

\---

 

The next thing he knew, it was morning. He woke to the sound of traffic, much louder than he had ever heard in Olympic Village. And he was so hot. Cursing his stupid roommate for once again turning off the fan in the middle of the night, he moved to get out of bed but was stopped in his tracks. 

By Eames. Eames’ fucking perfect body pressed up against his back, arms and legs wrapped around Arthur like he’d never let go.

 _It was real_. He and Eames, the man he had wanted for as long as he’d known what it was to want someone, had fucked. He was in Eames’ bed, in Eames’ apartment, in Eames’ embrace. And damn, he’d won a gold medal and set a world record.

The realization that he had essentially everything he’d ever dreamt of was staggering. He’d obviously been too nervous yesterday to deal emotionally with his win and everything was finally coming out of today. Tears welled up in his eyes as he turned in the circle of Eames’ arms, ready to tempt fate one last time. 

Eames was awake. 

“Arthur, Arthur – what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m just…I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. It’s not every day that you win an Olympic gold medal.”

_Here goes._

“It’s not just that. I mean, I won you, too…right?”

Eames was silent for so long that Arthur closed his eyes, unable to look at the other man as his mental chant of _please keep me please keep me please keep me_ turned into _oh no what have I done_?

Eames lips were soft against his for a moment. He pulled slightly and whispered something into Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur broke away in frustration. He needed to know where the two of them stood. Was this goodbye? _Thanks, kid, it was great. Now I’ll be getting back to my regular life._

Now Eames was smirking at him.

“Eames, what?”

“I just love those faces you make.”

Kiss. 

“As I said earlier,” he continued. 

Kiss.

“Darling, I have always been yours.” 

 

\---

 

The interviewer leaned toward Eames and asked, “What has been your favorite part of these Olympic Games?”

Eames smiled graciously at her and thought about his answer for a few seconds.

“Well, I’d have to say that it’s been the opportunity to meet so many people from all around the world. And I’ve really enjoyed continuing to strengthen my relationship with Arthur, here.”

His expression was perfectly businesslike, but his hand under the table was anything but as it traveled slowly up and down Arthur’s thigh.

“That’s wonderful! I didn’t realize that you already knew each other!”

“Oh, yes,” Eames informed her, “we’ve been friends for nearly three years.”

And _fuck_ , now that hand was squeezing his cock, Eames’ palm hot even through the fabric of his jeans. 

_Oh, hell no_. Arthur was not going to let Eames embarrass him in front of an audience of millions of people. He tried to push Eames away without appearing obvious. 

“Arthur, what has it been like having one of the world’s greatest as a mentor for these last three years? What’s the best advice he’s given you?”

Eames squeezed again and Arthur bit his lip in an attempt to check the urge to thrust against him. 

“Eames is great. He’s always been really supportive of me, you know, sending me cards congratulating me after tournaments.”

“Isn’t that sweet,” the interviewer cooed. “Oh, and I was just told that today is your birthday! Happy eighteenth birthday, Arthur! That gold medal is probably the best present you could have asked for.”

Eames leaned in and breathed, “I suppose someone will be wanting birthday sex,” into his ear.

Arthur knew that his face had instantly turned bright red and that the interviewer was surely going to ask him what Eames had said. 

_Fuck this_. It was his eighteenth birthday, he was the proud owner of an Olympic gold medal and world record, and he’d just lost his virginity to the most amazing man in the world, a man who could have anyone but inexplicably wanted to be with him. He was giddy with success and happiness and wanted to shout it – not just from the rooftops but on national television.

“Actually,” he told the woman, “I got an even better present.”

“Oh, really? Care to tell us about it?”

Arthur grinned at her. 

“Eames has been my mentor for the last three years, you’re right. But since yesterday, he’s also been my boyfriend.”

Eames’ mouth dropped open, the interviewer’s eyes grew wide, and Arthur just sat there grinning at the camera.

The interviewer regained her composure first. 

“All right, thanks for watching. Now back to beach volleyball.” 

As the small studio cleared, the staff quite thoughtfully allowing Arthur and Eames some time alone, Arthur slid onto Eames’ lap. He leaned in and kissed the side of Eames’ neck before working his way up to those incredible lips. 

“Arthur, why did you just do that?” he whispered against Arthur’s mouth.

“Because I love you. And you love me. And I want everyone to know.” 

Eames’ smile as he pulled Arthur into a hug was practically _blinding_. 

“It’s true - I _do_ love you. Happy birthday, darling.”


End file.
